I gulp, and try to act calm. My stomach tangles up in knots, and my mind races. What do they know? Have they found out about the forgery?
“Going somewhere?” A voice makes St. Clair stop short.
It’s Lennox, arms folded, blocking our path.
“Just trying to get a moment alone with my lovely date,” St. Clair says pleasantly, sounding casual. “What brings you across the pond then, agent? Here to get a little culture? It’s a lovely exhibition.”
“Yes, it is.” Lennox holds his stare. “Except for one of the pieces. Word is, it’s a fake.”
My heart stops.
St. Clair arches an eyebrow, still cool. “Really? What a shame. Still, you never know. All kinds of folks out there, trying to pass things off as the real deal.”
“In this case, the owner seems rather rattled by the revelation.” Lennox nods to where Crawford is blustering with some police officers, red-faced and furious.
“And I thought you never took people at their word,” St. Clair shoots back. Lennox snorts, then turns to me for the first time.
“I warned you, Grace.” He almost sounds regretful.
I freeze, my palms starting to sweat. “What are you talking about?”
“Someone was seen leaving the gallery last night. Someone who matches your description.” He pulls out his handcuffs and my jaw drops. This can’t be happening.
“Now wait a minute, there’s clearly been some mistake—” St. Clair tries to block him, but Lennox just nods at a couple of police officers, and they pull St. Clair out of the way.
“Don’t say anything, Grace,” St. Clair calls, struggling. “I promise, this is just a bluff. It’s going to be okay.”
But his voice melts away under the rush of blood pounding in my ears. I can feel everyone watching, the whispers and gasps of scandal.
Lennox moves in and spins me around. I feel the cold, hard sting of metal as he slaps on the handcuffs and locks them shut. “Grace Bennett, you’re under arrest.”
CHAPTER 12
I spend the night shivering on the edge of a cot in a French police cell, still wearing my fancy formal dress. I can’t sleep a wink, and by morning, I’m exhausted, hungry – and scared to death. I’ve spent hours trying not to panic, going over every detail of our heist. I’ve run through what evidence they might have a million times and come up with way too many ideas. DNA traces, hair strands, eyewitnesses, security footage from cameras we might have missed…
I hug my arms around myself and try to be brave. St. Clair said it was just a bluff, and I wish I could believe him. But if he’s wrong…my whole future is on the line. Even if I don’t spend the rest of my life in jail, I’ll never be able to work in the art world again. And Nona will be so disappointed. My mom would be disappointed. The thought makes me sick.
The sun’s early light is filtering in through my barred window by the time a police officer with a jangling set of keys comes to collect me.
“Is a lawyer here?” I leap up eagerly. St. Clair wouldn’t have left me here alone, and I know he’s got to be moving heaven and earth – and a few international treaties too – to get me out. “Can I make my phone call now?”
But the guard just mumbles something in French, and leads me out. I follow him down several long hallways, wincing at my stiff muscles from spending the night shivering on that cot. Eventually, he opens the door to what must be an interview room and nods for me to go inside.
“I need to make a phone call,” I protest. “I have rights, you know.”
The door slams shut behind me. I’m left alone.
I exhale. At least this room is a bit warmer than the cell downstairs, and the plastic chair more comfortable. I sit down, waiting for Lennox, or a lawyer, or even a detective to come and question me, but the seconds tick past.
I try to think logically. What should I say to them? What if I can’t keep my story straight? With every passing minute, I feel my resolve slip, imagining a life behind bars, with no parole.
Stop it, Grace.
I take a few deep breaths and try to stay calm. This is exactly what they want: me freaking out and ready to spill my guts. Haven’t I seen it enough on cop shows on TV? Leave the suspect to stew until finally someone walks in and offers them a deal. But if they think the alone time is going to make me crack, they’re wrong. When your mom has cancer, you spend a lot of time waiting for answers.
Right on cue, the door finally opens, and Lennox walks in.
“Sorry about the wait,” he says, juggling two steaming Styrofoam cups and a bakery box in his hands. “I got called away. How are you doing? Hungry?”
He places the food down in front of me. Fresh croissants and pain au chocolat, smelling amazing. And is that…?
“Coffee,” he says, nudging the cup closer to me. “And not from a vending machine either. The French know how to brew a proper latte, I’ll give them that.”
He notices me shivering in my silk dress. “Here, take my jacket. You may as well get comfortable, we could be here a while.”
He drapes his jacket around my bare shoulders, then settles in the chair on the opposite side of the table.
“Mmm, I need this,” he sighs, taking a long gulp of coffee, and tearing off a corner of croissant. “I’ve been up all night with the evidence logs. You guys were thorough, I’ll give you that, but nobody leaves a crime scene completely clean.”
He leans back, eating. Casual, friendly – and totally unlike the stubborn agent I thought I knew.
He’s playing good cop. I narrow my eyes and press my lips together.
At this moment I want nothing more than to tell him where to shove his pastries, but the smell is too good, and I haven’t had a meal since yesterday. My stomach lets out a loud rumble, and I reach for the croissant. The buttery pastry melts in my mouth, and I inhale the whole thing in three bites. I gulp half the coffee, too, and begin to feel like a person again. I’m about to thank him when I remember who put me here.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod, and carefully sip my coffee, deciding to keep quiet and see where this goes.
Lennox finishes his pastry before leaning back and giving me a friendly look. “Here’s the thing, Grace. I don’t care about you right now. I’m after bigger fish, and you know that, so it’s time to come clean. Tell me everything and you can go free.”
I decide to call his bluff. “What if I’m guilty?”
Lennox snorts. “I know you just got caught up in St. Clair’s games. I’ve interviewed enough witnesses to know that he can be quite persuasive. Maybe he made you think this was all a game, a fun little adventure. But it’s not. These are serious offenses, a serious crime. Do you understand?”
Better than he can imagine, but I force myself to just keep breathing. Surely if he has evidence against me, he would be using it by now?
“You’ve had it out for St. Clair from the start,” I say quietly. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
I hate lying, but this is true, in a way. What we did may have been technically illegal, but I still believe we did the right thing to get back at Crawford. That Armande belongs to St. Clair’s family.
“Oh no?” Lennox goes in for the kill. “Then why are your fingerprints all over the crime scene? It doesn’t look too good.”
I freeze, my heart stuttering in panic, but then I remember. “I was at the gallery for the party, and before then, too. St. Clair and I had a guided tour, we oversaw the delivery of his exhibit. I must have touched a dozen things.”
Lennox scowls. “And where were you the night before the opening?”
“With St. Clair.” I stand firm; it’s the truth. I don’t have to tell him what we were doing. “We were together all night.”
He remains unconvinced. “How convenient.”
The good cop routine must be wearing thin, because now Lennox glares at me. “You know, at first I thought you were a smart girl, Grace. But standing by a man who will give you up to save his own ass is incredibl
y stupid.”
“What do you mean, give me up?” I frown.
“Didn’t you know?” Lennox smirks. “St. Clair’s in the other room right now, telling us everything. I wanted to see if I could cut a deal with you, get you out of this before he sold you out completely, but I guess it’s too late now.”
I stare at him, notice the tension in the hand he’s clinging to the table with, and suddenly, my fears are gone. He really is bluffing.
“St. Clair would never do that,” I say.
Lennox leans forward and lowers his voice. “You’re not the first woman to believe a man’s lies. You can’t trust a thief, Grace. They are all liars.”
I look Lennox in the eye. “He doesn’t lie to me.”
Lennox scrapes back his chair and heads for the door. “Just ask yourself: are you willing to bet your future on him?”
I don’t even need to think it over.
“Always,” I vow. Lennox snorts, and then he’s gone.
I’m stuck waiting in the interview room another hour, so I figure I may as well finish off those croissants. Now that my panic has passed, I’m feeling better. Lennox really is clutching at straws here. Still, it makes me wonder: will he ever give up?
He’s followed St. Clair halfway across the world, stalked him at every turn…even if St. Clair never pulled another heist, and reformed to live as a good, law-abiding citizen, Lennox would be right there behind us, lurking, waiting for some reason to pounce.
Just how far will he go to bring St. Clair down?
Eventually, the door opens. It’s Lennox again. He doesn’t look happy.
Another man pushes past him, small and French. “I’m so sorry for the delay, mademoiselle,” he gushes. “Please, come this way.”
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“Wherever you wish. You’re free to go,” he explains.
I look at Lennox, but he’s scowling at the floor. Clearly, he’s been overruled.
I stand and lift my chin, perking up already. “Finally.”
“Again, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.” The short man glares at Lennox, then ushers me out to the front lobby of the police station. I can hear a familiar voice as we get closer—it’s St. Clair, sounding furious.
“…I’ll be lodging a formal complaint. This is unacceptable—”
“Monsieur St. Clair.” The Frenchman rushes forward, raising his hands in apology. “Please, there’s no need to shout. Your friend is safe and well, and free to go.”
St. Clair sees me, and rushes to pull me into his arms. He holds me tightly, and I lean into his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.
“It’s fine.” I pull away. “Everything’s okay.” I look around at all the cops, and people, and reporters jostling by the doors. “I just want to get out of here.”
“Right away.”
“I wouldn’t go too far,” Lennox says, planting himself in front of us. “I still need to reach you for questioning.”
St. Clair looks like he wants to land a swift right hook on the agent’s face, but I’m too tired to deal with anything more. The events of the past 24 hours hit hard, and I have to hold on to St. Clair tightly to keep from falling over.
“Please,” I whisper, “No more fighting. Just take me home.”
“Of course.”
He wraps a protective arm around me, and leads me through the chaos.
CHAPTER 13
As soon as I get back to the apartment, all I want is to soak in a long, hot bath.
“I’ll go get you some tea,” St. Clair says, looking at me with concern. I don’t blame him. My reflection in the mirror is a total mess: bedraggled hair and dark shadows under my eyes.
“Tea sounds good.” I give him a tired smile. He heads downstairs, and I run the hot water into the huge clawfoot tub, emptying in a whole bottle of fancy lavender bubble bath. As the tub fills I strip out of the gown that I loved so much, now grayed with prison dirt and stained with tears and who knows what else. The sweet smelling steam fills the room, and I sink down into the bubbles and let the soapy suds wash away the last twelve hours.
I’m floating and half-dozing when St. Clair returns with a tray. “There’s cake too,” he adds. I laugh, thinking of the croissants I’ve already eaten today.
“Getting arrested is turning out to be hell on my waistline,” I quip, sitting up a little.
St. Clair looks surprised. “I’m surprised you can joke, after what you’ve been through.”
“I’ve been through worse,” I say simply. “A night in a jail cell is nothing compared to those nights I spent at the hospital with my mom.” I shrug. “Besides, I knew you would come get me in the end.”
“I nearly caused a diplomatic incident,” St. Clair admits with a wry grin. “I called everyone I could think of, dragged the ambassador out of bed at three in the morning.”
I smile. “So I’m guessing we won’t be invited to their next party then.”
“I can’t believe you’re so calm.”
“Tired,” I correct him. “But I’m okay. I’m not saying I wasn’t scared, but I knew Lennox was bluffing.”
“I can’t believe he’s punishing you just to get back at me.” St. Clair’s jaw sets in a grim line and he kneels beside the tub to take my hand in his firm, reassuring grip. “The thought of you in there, in jail, without me…” He shakes his head. “There’s no excuse. I never should have let you do anything illegal.”
“Hey,” I interrupt. “I wanted to do this. It was my idea to begin with. Don’t blame yourself. This was my choice. Mine. And I don’t regret it.”
St. Clair looks like he wants to say something, but he stops. “What did he say?” he asks. “In the interrogation?”
I shrug. “Just that they had my fingerprints at the scene, that he wanted to cut a deal with me, to sell you out. He said you were already confessing,” I add with a smile. “That you were implicating me in the next room.”
St. Clair laughs harshly. “I would never sell you out. Never.”
“I know,” I reassure him. “That’s when I knew he had nothing. After that, I was just waiting for you. I half-expected you to come sneaking in, disable all the alarms, and break me out,” I smile.
He softens. “I thought about it. But that would have made you a fugitive, and I couldn’t do that. We’ll find a way to get Lennox off our case, I promise.”
“I know. For now, I’m just happy to be back with my creature comforts again. Like hot water, and you.” I reach out and hook my finger over the top of his collar, pulling him closer.
“I missed you.” St. Clair lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my fingers.
I spread my hand and he kisses my palm. My skin starts to tingle. “Even a single night without you in my bed is too long.”
We lock eyes.
“I missed you too,” I say, pulling his mouth against mine with a soft moan.
Our kiss deepens, and a feeling of safety washes over me. In his arms, nothing bad can touch us. I part my lips and reach up to lace my fingers through his soft hair. He moans and I pull his mouth to mine harder, letting him know that I want him. Our breaths come fast and hot, and my hands reach to tug at his shirt and the waistband of his pants.
St. Clair helps me undress him as he kisses the underside of my wrist. He nips at the sensitive skin there and then moves his mouth up to the inside of my elbow and kisses all the way up to my wet, naked collarbone, biting and sucking just a tiny bit. My body starts to hum and I tip my head back against the tile, closing my eyes until he suddenly stops. When I look at him, he’s stepping back with a slow smile, reaching down to slide off his briefs.
I grin back at him and follow the lines of his muscles with my eyes, from the smooth planes of his chest to his tight abs, and then lower, to his perfect cock, already hard and magnificent. I sit up, bubbles sliding down my breasts as I reach out to stroke him, pulling St. Clair close so I can guide the tip of him into my mouth. I close my lips around his length, slidin
g my tongue up and down, moving my hands along his shaft. St. Clair groans and I feel heat spread between my legs.
“That’s right, God, yes.” His hands tug my hair, directing me in a slow, deep rhythm. I gorge on him, loving the taste, the scent of him, until finally St. Clair pulls back.
“Not so fast,” he teases, his breath coming ragged. “I plan on taking my time with you.”
My stomach twists with lust.
“Make some room in that tub,” he grins.
He steps over the edge and settles in behind me, water sloshing, so I’m cradled between his muscular thighs. He leans me back against his chest, his hands roaming lazily over my wet, naked body, out of sight under the bubbles. I can feel his hard cock pressing into my back, and I shift experimentally, feeling him hiss with breath.
“Easy there, tiger,” St. Clair murmurs in my ear. His fingers stroke over my belly, down between my thighs, then back up, teasing me. “I want to make sure every inch of you is squeaky clean…”
After everything I’ve been through, this is exactly what I need: to be reassured, touched, cared for. He takes the bottle of shower gel soaps up his palms. Then he begins to slide his hands over me with a new, sure purpose. Soothing. Caressing. The suds slide over my skin like silk, and I sink back, lost in bliss.
“Your body is incredible,” he whispers.
I open my eyes in time to see him slowly stroke my breasts, taking one in each hand. He runs his fingers over my nipples, circling them over and over, making me inhale sharply at the surge of energy pulsing downwards.
I moan, writhing in his arms, but St. Clair moves one arm against my chest, pinning me against his body.
“Look,” he commands me, and I do. I watch his strong, capable hands stroking lower, down between my thighs. The bubbles are dissipating now, and I watch his hands touch me at the same time I feel the pleasure they provide. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I gasp for air.
“Shh,” he soothes. But he doesn’t let up. He slides his thick finger up over my clit, over and around, faster and harder until I’m moaning. Then he curls two fingers, and sinks them low, deep inside me.
The Art of Stealing Forever Page 9
